Dancing notes
by J.A.Kishu
Summary: Some nights John has nightmare, sometimes he can go back to sleep. But always a healing sound helps him to find his way back.


It is hot and dusty all around him. The sun burns down on his skin without mercy and the sand crunches under his shoes. John takes cover behind a huge rock. He is alone. No one is around. He can't find his unit. The only things remaining in the desert are the drops of blood on the sand.

John knows there is someone who needs help. His help. Someone is injured and he and the doctor who is now lost are separated in the middle of a battle field. The sound of gunfire comes closer again. John, behind his cover, tries to locate the direction and to understand if it is a friend or an enemy. With the sound coming closer and closer John is sure he is in danger. The guns are from one of the groups his unit tried to disarm.

Sweat appears on his face, his eyes move from one side to the other to find a safer place to hide. He needs to return to his unit. As he decides to move away, a man is suddenly standing in front of him holding a gun and aiming at his heart. The man looks him in the eyes. His eyes are like dark empty holes. He pulls the trigger.

John screams. Pain rushes through his body and his shoulder hurts as if he had been shot again. He isn't aware of his surroundings. John sits upright in his bed, breathing heavily and holding his hurting shoulder with one hand. His eyes are closed tight, his whole body is shaking and it takes only a few seconds till tears of pain and panic start to wet his face.

Still not opening his eyes, John tries to recognize where he is. But, before he can start touching anything, a new sensation appears. John isn't sure he has heard this before. Maybe his loud breathing had silenced all other sounds until now.

John listens and hears and feels the sound of a violin. It is played with care and understanding. The notes of a to him unknown piece creep upstairs to John's room. The note knock on the door. Then enter his room by squeezing themselves under the door and through the keyhole. The notes flout over the floor like an upcoming flood. Waves of music brake at his bedside. They build towers to climb onto the bed and then cover his blanket, his pillow and the man sitting on his bed with delicate and comforting sounds of safety and home.

The piece ends and a new one starts, the feeling of sorrow is now also accompanied by one of hope. They both embrace John's heart. His breathing slows down and the tears stop. The pain in his shoulder goes numb and starts to disappear.

Another song begins. Deep inside John begins to relax, listening to the violin and after the fourth song he finally opens his eyes.

He is in his room, a heavy wool blanket over his body, shades of light coming in from the outside through his window. Everything is alright, his room looks like the same as it was in the evening when he had gone to bed. Nothing has changed.

Slow tunes came from downstairs and after another minute John decides there is no point in trying to sleep more.

He gets up, takes his dressing gown and slowly moves to the door. He tries to go downstairs in silence, not wanting to disturb the sound of the violin. John passes the living room, where the healing sound for his soul is originating.

Sherlock is standing in his favorite violin playing place, at the window with his back to John. His eyes are looking outside to the road but John can tell Sherlock is seeing nothing outside. His mind is far away. He is in his own world. John is the only one who is allowed to have a look inside his world, but only sometimes.

The things that Sherlock never shows lay now open for John to see. All of Sherlock's feelings are there to be shared with John so as to give him the company and the courage he needs to find his way back from the battlefield to Baker Street.

John puts the kettle on and prepares two cups of tea. He never asks Sherlock if he wants one, he doesn't want to interrupt the playing. He never wants him to stop it until all darkness is gone. The steaming water fills the cups and the smell of tea and home fills the room. He sits down in his armchair, one cup in his hand the other one is on the table besides him.

Sherlock plays for him. Only for him. John closes his eyes, drinking his tea and feeling safe again. He slowly comes back to reality.

The music stops with a final song. Sherlock turns around and without saying anything he puts the violin away, takes his tea and sits in his chair in front of John. Both men deep in their own thoughts.

John never asks why Sherlock is always awake in the nights when his dreams become torture. Sherlock never asks what John's nightmares are about, he probably knows it anyway.

The sun rises behind Sherlock and both men sit in silent understanding. That's all they need right now. A new day starts without the shadows but with the company of a friend.


End file.
